Yeah, so, I would never win “American Idol” or “The Voice” or any of those singing competition songs you say you don’t watch, but you totally do.
I’m a horrible singer. I sing like Elaine from “Seinfeld” dances.
It’s really unfortunate, because I love to sing. I try not to subject others to my terrible voice. I consider it a public service. You’re welcome, everybody. I keep my singing restricted to when I’m alone in the car. Well, at least I used to.
The Spawn loves it when I sing. It’s a testament to how much that kid loves me. He is the only living thing that likes the sound of my singing voice. Everyone, and everything, else; not so much. The dog hates it. He barks and barks when I sing. It’s a testament to how awful my singing is.
I guess I don’t know a lot of baby-appropriate songs. Usually I sing “I Love To Singa” from an old cartoon. Lately, I’ve been singing “Conjunction Junction.” That’s all I got.
I’ve been trying to play more music for the Spawn. I mean other than the old-school Herbie Hancock we listen to in the car. I’ve been playing the Beastie Boy’s instrumental album, “The Mix-Up” for him. Yesterday, we were singing and dancing to “Brick House.” Homer wouldn’t stop barking at my “singing,” so our little dance party didn’t last long.
Maybe I should start rapping? I mean, that’s basically talking set to a funky beat, right?
“If you’re having girl problems, I feel bad for you son. I’ve got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.”